


solace

by gotham_ruaidh



Series: Gotham Writes for Imagine Claire & Jamie [53]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:45:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7322983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotham_ruaidh/pseuds/gotham_ruaidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine Jamie’s thoughts as he approached the battlefield hospital to find Claire in 02x10…</p>
            </blockquote>





	solace

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at [Imagine Claire & Jamie](http://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/145808315847/solace) on tumblr

Blood.

So much blood. Caked between his fingers. Oozing down his chest. Sticky in the crease of his elbow.

Where was his sword?

Sunlight had pierced through the clouds now. It was a beautiful day.

Was it? Men - his men - lay dead and dying in the mist.

When was the last time he’d eaten? It must have been with Rupert and Angus, crouched beside their small campfire, listening to them argue over a hoor.

His tired feet crested the hill - finally in sight of the makeshift hospital.

Claire.

He had been such a coward last night. All day he’d thought about how to take a proper leave of Claire - what he’d say, how he’d hold her.

But when the moment came, all words had fled from his mind. All he could do was touch her, kiss her like a brute. Take from her. Not give her what she so desperately needed - reassurance. Strength. A reminder of his love for her, his promises to her, his commitment to her.

At least he’d had the presence of mind to bow to her - like he had on their wedding. For a small moment, transporting her back to that other surreal day, when they had also faced a seemingly insurmountable challenge, and both had been absolutely terrified.

A flash of happiness amid all the pain and grief to come.

And now - now that he could hear her voice drifting through the open door, now that he could *feel* her soul calling to him - he had found the words. All of the words - more words then he knew what to do with.

He wanted to watch her unawares - admire her as she sewed flesh and soused wounds with alcohol and cursed at the stubbornness of men. Then wait, standing still as she surveyed the room, searching for the next man to tend.

Watch her eyes find him.

See the tension seep from her body.

Wait for her to finish up.

Then lead her to a quiet place, where he could hold her close. Let her check him for wounds as he undid her laces. Rest her on his plaid. Bury his face between her legs - shrinking his world to be only her, and her world to be only him.

His boots slid in the blood on the floor of the cottage.

She turned, feeling him - instinctively knowing he was there.

Her eyes locked with his, and he crossed over to her, feet heavier than lead. He cupped her lovely face between his grimy hands, thumbs tracing the delicate arches of her cheekbones.

“I am alive. I am whole. I have returned to ye, *mo Sorcha*. Ye arena alone.” His voice was sandpaper rough from screams and smoke.

Her eyes darted across his face, seeking visible injuries.

“You’re here,” she breathed. “Truly here.”

“Aye.” He wiped a smudge of blood from her forehead. “I’ll see to my men. Then I’ll see to you.”

She butted her nose with his, inhaling his scent. Not caring that it was comprised of layers of sweat and mud and blood.

“If I don’t see to you first,” she breathed, eyes full of promise.

“I love you, Claire.” It was all his weary mind could say. It was the most important message of all. “I love you.”

She kissed him - long and slow and sweet. Tangling her bloody hands in his sweat-matted hair.

“I love you.”

She bit his lower lip, drawing blood.

“I love you.”

He dug his thumbnail into the side of her neck, leaving a palm print damp with blood and grime.

The other women bustled around him. Men dragged in their wounded comrades.

And in the far corner, the English prisoners watched, fascinated, as the sharp-tongued and foul-mouthed English healer lost herself in Red Jamie’s filthy, blood-spattered arms.


End file.
